Picture it: Evan39 and I, unwilling apostles to the spectacle of dread, perched in the shadows of Francis Dolarhyde’s sanctum. The late Philip Seymour Hoffman, duct-taped to a wheelchair, sweats through his bindings, struggling against inevitability. We watch, transfixed, as The Red Dragon looms, a deity of grotesque beauty and wrath circling his prey.

“Do you $ee?” Dolarhyde whispers, his voice cavernous and reverent, filling the dim room like smoke.

Hoffman stammers, choking on terror. “W-what do you want from me?”

Evan39 leans toward me, whispering, “He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t $ee. That’s why he’s here :(”

The Dragon strips himself of his clothes, standing naked beneath the flickering projector light. His tattooed wings stretch across the room, an infernal masterpiece consuming every shadow. Kneeling, he gazes upon the image of his terrible glory on the wall.

“I am Privy to a Great Becumming™. And you—” he growls, turning to Hoffman, “you are witness to it.”

Evan shifts nervously, glancing at me for reassurance. “I mean, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? The wings, the theatrics. We get it—you’re Becumming. Honestly, this is worse than when I missed my Safeway quotas.”

I shush him, unable to tear my eyes away.

Hoffman’s voice cracks as he pleads. “I don’t understand! Just let me go!”

Dolarhyde’s expression twists, half rage, half pity. “Of course you don’t. You’re blind. You crawl through life, unaware of the magnificence surrounding you. But I will $how you.”

He steps back, presses play on a cassette deck, and the absurdly upbeat tones of Lionel Richie’s All Night Long (All Night) fill the room. The contrast is too much. Evan snickers, whispering, “This guy’s got a sense of humor after all.”

The music swells. Dolarhyde stands tall, his shadow merging with the Dragon’s wings on the wall. “Do you $ee?! DO YOU $EE?!”

Hoffman trembles, his voice trembling with raw desperation. “No! No, I don’t see anything! Please, I don’t want to $ee!”

The Dragon roars silently from the projection, its form vast and unrelenting, as Dolarhyde sighs, almost wistful in his disappointment.

“They never $ee,” he says softly, turning his gaze to us. The threat in his voice lingers like smoke.

Evan and I exchange glances, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe he’s got a point,” Evan mutters. “We’re all just blind, waiting for someone to roll the projector.”

The saxophone crescendos, Richie’s voice ringing out: “All night long, all night… all night long.” Hoffman’s screams dissolve into the absurdity of the music as the projector flickers, the Dragon fades, and Dolarhyde stands alone with his Great Becumming™.

Evan and I slip back into the shadows. The scene lingers in my mind as I whisper: “Do you finally $ee, Evan?”

He doesn’t answer.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5661317&forum_id=2).#48534675)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyTke7tD35o

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5661317&forum_id=2).#48534678)